


Make This Feel Like Home.

by Dee_M



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anxiety, Baking, Bants, Comfort, Fluff, Food mentions, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Meet-Cute, No Angst, Slow Build, Summer, digital editor phil, evening class, preschool teacher Dan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-06-28 10:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_M/pseuds/Dee_M
Summary: In a bid to be more social after his big move to London, Phil signs up for a community baking class, he might come out of it with more than just some culinary knowledge.





	1. Chapter One.

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, here goes! 
> 
> This whole idea started when I ran out of a community class I had signed up for last summer, I got severe anxiety about the damned thing and quit midway through. Basically I'm projecting my issues whoops.
> 
> It's a pleasure to write this as my Phandom Summer Fic, and I just hope I actually finish writing and posting this. 
> 
> Lots and lots and lots of credit to the lovely Tasha @animad (Yourfriendlyblogstalker) for being my beta thus far, you are way too kind and patient! I hope you stick with me through my painfully slow writing of this fic.

**Chapter One**

The dairy aisle.

That would be Phil’s answer if ever questioned about his favourite supermarket aisle. Pretty ironic, considering he’s lactose intolerant. The bakery was hard competition but then it doesn’t really come under the aisle category, does it? It’s definitely more of a section in Phil’s opinion. There’s something about the artificial cool and the quiet thrum of the dairy aisle, not as cold as the frozen food section with its frosted glass doors, nor as stuffy as the canned goods. It just has a liminal quality to it that he thoroughly enjoys.

Obviously, no one has ever asked him, in fact, he’s really not sure why he has such a specific answer, probably just another thing to add to his list of ‘Reasons why I’m odd’ Phil muses as he picks up a pint of semi-skimmed milk and adds to his basket. He stares at a bottle of almond milk that catches his eye and debates putting back his pint of ordinary cow’s milk and buying that instead, knows his body would appreciate it later but he can’t bring himself to. Not today.

Phil figures he’s done his fair amount of change this past month, he got a new job and moved to London all in a matter of weeks, which was exhausting and so he reserves the right to hold on to small pieces of normalcy, like continuing to drink the same semi skimmed milk he has been drinking for the past 30 years of his life.

On his way to the till he walks past the magazine stand, and sees an edition of ‘Gardeners’ world’ which reminds him of his mum, who regularly reads the magazine, he really should call her. It’s only been a couple of days since they last spoke on the phone but he knows how much she worries about him and frankly he misses her. She’s another part of that normalcy he’s so desperately clinging to at the moment.

Really Phil has no idea why he thought he should do such a big change, he hates change. Well, actually he does know why he did it, and he won’t admit it just yet, but the changes have been… refreshing.

It’s getting dark, he notices as he leaves the shop, and starts on his way back to the small studio flat he lives in. Phil still feels hesitant to call it home, it doesn’t hold the comfort of his old flat back in Rawtenstall nor does it hold the warmth and love of his parents’ house. Some might suggest reasonable things like giving it time, but walking in London as the sun is setting and you’re reflecting on your week, is not a time for being reasonable, let him be dramatic, dammit.

He quickens his pace as the wind picks up, his hoodie doing little in way of stopping the cold from seeping in, and hurries on.

-

Later that night, after having marmalade toast for dinner, Phil settles down on his sofa, which he had gotten online from a second-hand website. He’d chosen it primarily because the previous owner had offered to deliver for only an additional 10 pounds, and Phil really couldn’t pass that up. His flat is still quite sparsely furnished, despite the fact that it’s tiny, (or ‘Cosy’ as the Landlord had put it) but it’s not looking bad considering how recently he moved in, and the fact that his new job has been draining him of all and any energy he has.

It’s not that it’s too hard for him, just that he had gotten used to the comfortable pace of his old job. It had been his first after finishing his MA in Video post-production, which in addition to his BA in English put him in the perfect position to help his aunt set up a website for her small knitting magazine. She subsequently employed him as full-time editor for both the website and the magazine itself.

Phil had been more than happy to take the job, as the prospect of finding a new job with new people, and quite possibly in a new city as well, was daunting to say the least. So he stayed in Rawtenstall and lived in a small flat less than 10 minutes away from his parent’s house, and things were good, they really were. 

Okay, maybe there were a _few_ things that had started to chip away at him, small niggling voices in the back of his mind telling him that he really wasn’t using his skillset to its full potential, or even half its potential, telling him that maybe he should spread his wings a little, move a bit further away from home base. And then there’s a whole other voice, that sounds suspiciously like his mother, reminding him that he hasn’t brought anyone home for _years._ Not that he’d really been trying but the local dating pool was fairly small, particularly the specifically male pool Phil would even be interested in.

And so it was that when, after eight years, his aunt decided to close the doors of her magazine, he finally had a good and proper push to take that leap he was always dreading. He took his time sifting through different job applications online and after a week or so decided to apply to one at a confectionery conglomerate as a part of their video production team, he also sent in applications to a small advert production company and a studio that specialises in remastering old films. All based in London.

Which isn’t that far in the grand scheme of things, but it was still quite a change, however, two weeks later when he got the position at the confectionery conglomerate, despite the thousand and one worries he had, he was looking forward to it.

Now, after one of the most hectic months of his life, he is finally starting to settle in, he’s got a fairly good idea of what he’s doing at work and he has become reasonably familiar with his office surroundings, the ins and outs of the job and his co-workers.

He picks up his phone and shoots his mum a message asking her if she’s free. There’s 35 unread messages from a group chat one of his co-workers, Mark, had added him to. It wasn’t work chat as much as it was office related gossip, which Phil didn’t mind, however he hasn’t really said anything on the group yet beside a cursory “Hey guys it’s Phil” message, and now the discussion seems to be about getting drinks after work on Friday and he really would much rather be at back in his flat watching Riverdale than awkwardly mingling in a bar. He doesn’t say anything though because he doesn’t want to come off standoffish or even worse, like a complete idiot excusing himself when they haven’t even asked him along in the first place.

He comforts himself with that thought; they probably don’t mean him anyway, so no need to send an excuse or feel guilty about not going!

Just then his phone pings again, this time with a reply from his mother, _“Of course I’m free, dear, it’s a Wednesday evening”._ He isn’t really sure what that has to do with anything but he slides his thumb across her contact and calls her.

“Hey, mum.”

“Hello Philip, how are you doing?”

“Uhh I’m fine, actually managed to stop by Tesco today so that’s good, what’ve you been up to?”

“Well your dad and I went in to town today to get some new curtains for the living room and,” Phil’s mind sort of zones out as she chatters on, he scratches a nail along the armrest absently and “mms” along to his mother who is now informing him about how the neighbour’s daughter has just had her second baby and really Phil thinks this is the perfect place to cut in before she starts not so subtly hinting that she’s waiting for some grandkids of her own someday, and so he pipes up and spends the next ten minutes updating her on how the new job is going. Eventually they get round to talking about his new co-workers and he mentions that they’re all quite friendly, which prompts his mum to inquire;

“So you’re making friends then, Philip?” her tone is light but he can hear the underlying question all the same _“are you holing yourself up in your flat?”_

“Uhm, well yes, I guess? I think there’s a plan to have a few drinks on Friday, after work.” He squeezes his eyes shut and prays she’ll just assume he’s going.

“And you’re going, right?” Fuck. Who’s he kidding, Kath Lester is nobody’s fool.

“Maybe, yeah, we’ll see,” he mumbles. “I’m not sure it’s really my scene though, mum, you know that.”

“Don’t be silly, you have to go to these things, Phil, it’s always a little bit awkward at first, but otherwise you’ll never make any friends.” She sounds positive as she carries on. “Go on, go with them! Promise me you’ll do at least one social activity before next week.” 

Phil groans dramatically, “Fiiiiiiiiine, I promise. I will venture out of my den.” He yawns “Well I best be off, it’s getting late.” He hears his mum hum in reply.

“Okay, speak to you later, love.”

“Bye, mum, love you”

“Love you, too. Goodnight”

He lowers the phone from his cheek and ends the call. There are a few more messages from the work group, his finger hovers over the notification badge and he debates whether or not he should reply tonight.

It’s late, he can just do it tomorrow, he swipes the notification away, locks his phone and heads to bed.

-

Phil sits down at the cafeteria table, lunch in hand, and murmurs a greeting to the 3 other people sitting at the table; Mark, Sally and…Ben? Bill? He’s not entirely sure.

They’re talking about yesterday’s football match, Phil doesn’t pretend he’s watched it, instead he takes his phone out of his pocket and opens Reddit.

And so, five minutes later, he’s completely unprepared to hear

“You’re coming on Friday, right?” the question hits him like a brick, and three pairs of eyes are suddenly looking at him, awaiting his response. He feels a sheen of sweat start to form on his face and tries to come up with a response.

“Oh, uhh, well I’m not sure I can.” A fat lie, why did he say that? Now he needs to find an excuse, and quick.

“Oh c’mon, Phil, almost the whole division’s tagging along,” Mark says, as if that’s meant to be encouraging, “It’ll be fun! Sally here does a very funny drunk dance, don’t you, Sal?” He directs that last part to said co-worker, who wrinkles her nose at him in disapproval and says “Not as funny as your sober dancing!” in retaliation.

Okay so maybe he should go, but he’s already said he’s not sure he can, so now they’ll know he lied if he says he can show up.

He’s overthinking it, he knows he is, they don’t care, everyone makes generic excuses, so what? And he did promise his mum he’d go out, so there’s that.

“Alright, yeah I’ll come,” He says with a friendly smile, “But don’t expect any dancing from me!”

Mark laughs, “Yeah, yeah, just wait till we get a few drinks in ya” Phil laughs politely but feels a familiar ball of anxiety start forming in the pit of his stomach. He spent so long worrying about the go, no-go aspect he hadn’t even started worrying about the whole ‘drinking with the lads’ part.

He feels so silly, he’s 30, he should be able to casually go for drinks without making such a big deal out of it in his head by now.

Alas, such is the way of being an introvert with about seven different forms of anxiety.

He’s got a whole day to mentally prepare himself, so he should be fine.

-

It is not fine. So not fine. The exact opposite of fine. Extremely un-fine, in fact.

He could go on, but he would prefer to be thinking about ways to subtly leave the stuffy, cramped pub. It’s only been an hour since they all piled in, but he has run out of all his go-to small talk options and the beer he’s been nursing has long ago gone warm, which doesn’t really bother him because he didn’t want to drink it anyway, he only got it because he knew it was the ‘normal’ thing to do.

“Y’alright there?”

The voice pulls him out of his internal monologuing, and he flashes a quick smile at Sally, who’s rubbing hand sanitiser into her hands, to rid herself of any remnant oil from the chips she had just polished off.

“Yeah, course.”

“Well come on then, we’re gonna go play some pool.” She nods at a pool table positioned in the corner of the room where a couple of people are already playing.

Phil recognises a couple of faces at the table as more people from work and not even people he has formally met. Just then one of them looks across and calls out for Sally to come and join them for a game, Phil leaps at the chance to excuse himself.

“You join them! I actually have to go; I need to pick up some stuff on my way home and it’s getting late.”

“Oh”

“Mm, I’ll see you guys on Monday then, yeah?” he pushes his chair back from the table and stands up, straightening his shirt out.

“Yeah, you have a nice weekend,” she says with a smile, just as someone calls her from the pool table again and she turns to go with a wave,

“Bye!”

“Bye.”

Phil makes his way to the door, and as he feels the cool evening air brush across his skin, he’s only slightly ashamed to admit that leaving has been the best part of this whole outing.

By the time he’s standing on the tube, heading back to his flat, he’s beginning to have second thoughts, maybe he should have stuck it out a bit longer, it wasn’t all that bad, now what’s he going to say to his mum when she asks about it?

_“I went for an hour, sat in a corner looking awkward, then left”_

He knows she’d be disappointed and he doesn’t want her to think he’s lonely in the big city.

The train slows to a halt at Ealing common and he traipses off the train and steps onto the escalator right after a young woman with short, purple hair. He watches as she plays ‘Crossy Road’ on her phone.

He steps off, and moves through the fare gates, swiping his Oyster card as he goes, and only once he’s through does he realise he’d been tensed up, he still isn’t used to the London underground with it’s fast-moving, grimace bearing commuters and stern looking no-nonsense staff, despite his daily work commute.

He exits the station and crosses the street, he stops at the Sainsbury’s express on the corner and debates whether he should get something to eat or if he should get a coffee from the Costa next door instead, he decides on Costa and 10 minutes later he’s almost home, work bag on shoulder, sugary pastry and coffee in hand.

He passes by a notice board that’s usually barren, but today has two notices pinned securely down, one has a picture of a golden retriever on it so Phil feels obligated to go over and see if it’s missing, to his relief, it’s a ‘Found!’ poster instead, hopefully, the dog and his owner would be reunited soon.

Satisfied, Phil’s about to carry on walking when the second poster catches his eye, it’s an advert for the local community centre, just a couple of streets away from his apartment, the advert’s bright red block letters say that a new round of evening classes are about to start and that it’s _“The perfect way to learn a new skill, brush up on your old ones, or make new friends!”_ he snorts at that last bit, has anybody ever made friends at an evening class? He has only been to two, granted, but everyone’s so stuffy and serious, he remembers a couple of years ago when he attended a yoga class, he didn’t see anyone laugh once throughout the whole 4 weeks!

And on the Survival 101 course (He now knows how to say S.O.S with a torch but unfortunately not much else) the only person who wasn’t as dull as ditchwater, was an old granny by the name of Myrtle, who used to say the most shocking and oft inappropriate comments to herself, such as _“Ah yes, the constrictor knot, never comes off the bedpost”_ which paired with the fact that she was even attending a Survival 101 class at her age, lead to Phil being very amused and just slightly concerned.

He shakes his head in amusement and heads home.

-

Phil starts his Saturday off by going for a run on the common, he has hardly been eating healthy since the move, in fact, he may have only had 3 pieces of fruit in the last few weeks, a far cry from 5-a-day, unless the vegetables on pizza count. And so, he thought a run was more than needed.

Usually he doesn’t think about much whilst running, but today as he was leaving his flat bright and early at seven o’ clock, his mum sent a “Good morning!” message on the family group, which reminded him that he still doesn’t have something to tell her to stop her from worrying about his hermit-like social life. He doesn’t know why she’s particularly concerned _now_ ; he’s hardly been a social person for the last 30 years of his life either. Alas, such are the ways of a mother. His mother, at least.

And so it was that his mind was busy feeling guilty and debating the morality of lying for the greater good, rather than being at one with his body or any such thing. And when he finally plonks himself down on a bench, breath coming hot and short, leg muscles aching and face dripping with sweat rather unattractively, he still hasn’t come up with anything.

The early morning breeze is still surprisingly chilly for late March and he feels his sweat start to turn cold pretty quickly, he should probably start home again and have a warm shower but he’s just waiting to catch his breath again, then he’ll get going.

A pigeon coos suddenly and loudly, right next to his head and he jolts in surprise, his heart rate speeding right back up all over again. He looks up over his left shoulder to see the most hench pigeon, with a neck about as wide as his fist, perched atop an encased public noticeboard. The pigeon’s beady eyes stare at him with such an accusing look, Phil can almost hear it saying _“You got a problem, mate?”_ he’s about to ignore it and look away when the pigeon swivels around and suddenly its rear end is lauding over Phil’s shoulder and he really doesn’t fancy his chances with that, so he stands up.

Which is how, for the second time in less than 24 hours, he finds himself standing in front of a poster for the community centre’s evening classes, only this time he realises that this might be exactly what he’s been looking for.

He can sign up to something mundane for about 4 weeks, it’ll appease his mum and hey, he might even learn something useful. Right! that’s what he’s going to do, he’ll drop by now, before he has time to chicken out.

The walk to the community centre is a pleasant one, his post-exercise high has kicked in and he feels full of confidence; He can sign up right now! He’ll casually stroll in, without breaking a sweat, and register for a course, he’s a totally spontaneous person.

He won’t readily admit how many times he has backed out of things at the very last minute because his brain gives him a hundred different scenarios on just how horribly wrong it could go, every possible mistake he could make, till he gives up altogether just to stop the way his stomach twists with anxiety and his face feels clammy with fear.

He hadn’t felt like that today, he thought he was fine and he was, he was fine as he ambled up the steps, as he strolled through the automatic glass doors, he was fine as he found the board with all the evening classes, listed and detailed. But then, looking at all the choices he felt a creeping sense of panic slowly envelop him.

What should he choose? Woodwork sounds nice in theory, but he could easily end up losing a finger, he’s not sure he has the attention span or artistic ability for the Pointillism art class and he really doesn’t have the courage, energy or agility for any of the dance classes. He doesn’t want to take either of the language classes because those’ll surely remind him too much of school and he doesn’t want to remember those awful times. Then there are the cooking classes, which he almost dismisses straight away but then he sees one by the name of “Baking: The Basics” and thinks that doesn’t sound too bad, he can manage and really, he likes the idea of making something from scratch, he doubly likes the idea of then eating said creation.

A quick read through of the class listing informs him that it’s a six-week course, with 2-hour sessions; every Wednesday from 7:00 to 9:00 P.M.

It’s 80 pounds but all you have to bring is an apron and a food container so that nothing gets wasted or left behind. Alright, looks like this is the one to go for then.

Now comes the part he hates the most, he has to talk to the man at the front desk, the man is sorting through some papers and gently bopping his head along to the music playing softly from the radio, he looks up as Phil approaches and smiles politely,

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

“Uh, I’d like to sign up for one for the evening classes?” he’s not sure why it comes out as a question, hates that he always sounds so unsure of himself.

“Of course, have you chosen one? Or would you like to see our list of available options?” he places a list of all the classes on the countertop.

“I’d like to join this one, please,” Phil points to where Baking: The Basics is listed.

“Okay then, if you’d like to fill in this form.” The man, Ali according to his name tag, says as he hands him a biro pen and a paper.

Phil writes down all the required information and reads the terms and conditions at the bottom of the paper, which he’s relieved to see say that you can drop out at any point throughout the course (your money won’t be refunded though, he hopes that’ll keep him in attendance).

He signs on the dotted line and hands the pen and paper back to Ali, who skims the form quickly, then nods in approval.

“Everything looks to be in order,” he says as he slides the paper into a folder, aptly labelled ‘Evening Class Applications’, 

“Will that be cash or card?”

“Card”

He takes his phone and wallet out, places his phone on the counter and gets his card out of his wallet.

After he pays, just as he’s about to leave the front desk, Ali offers him a small leaflet with the Baking class information so that he can keep track of the times and dates. Phil accepts it gladly and heads towards the main doors, with a spring in his step, he did it! Whoop! And Ali was so efficient the whole process was over before he got a chance to embarrass himself; truly a win in his books.

In a classic case of speaking too soon, he trips on the door threshold and stumbles right into a man standing in front of him, who lets out a surprised squeak. Phil almost drops his phone but manages to keep a grip on it in the end, he does drop the leaflet, however.

He takes a moment to steady himself and is just about to bend down and pick up the leaflet when the man, dressed in black jeans and an oversized fluffy black jumper, swoops down and picks it up for him, Phil blinks in surprise, he looks at the man and his brain face palms, of course he had to barrel into such a gorgeous man, he feels his face flushing in embarrassment.

The man holds out the leaflet and opens his mouth to say something but Phil doesn’t stick around to hear it, he grabs the godforsaken leaflet, mutters a thanks and rushes down the stairs and up the road, without looking back.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What? A month since I updated? sorry cant hear you, what do u mean?. lmao. enjoy!

Chapter Two.

For the most part, Phil doesn’t indulge his “Whimsical” side, he’s a big fan of science and logic, but also…sometimes, just sometimes, he believes in the universe too. He has a small list of things filed away in the corner of his mind under ‘Fate??’.

It’s only small, inconsequential happenstances really, like that time last year when he accidentally smashed his favourite mug that he had gotten when he was 20 at an obscure no-name charity shop, then later that day he found exactly the same mug at a garage sale he passed on his way to work. To say Phil was surprised would be an understatement, what are the chances of there even being _two_ mugs that say “No more nouns, I’m proverbs”, let alone that he should walk past one the very same week that his broke. Needless to say, he bought the mug.

His current predicament, this Monday evening, isn’t actually _as_ unlikely as that was, but Phil still thinks it’s pretty fucking odd that he’s currently hiding behind a magazine rack, because the unfairly attractive man he quite literally bumped into the other day, is now standing in the homeware aisle of Phil’s local Tesco’s. As in the one legitimately only three minutes away from his flat.

He contemplates just leaving without getting an apron; he has been kind of idling for a couple of minutes now and he’s concerned that someone will think he’s up to something dodgy if he hangs around any longer. It seems the gorgeous man he’s trying to avoid has taken it upon himself to sniff just about every type of candle on the shelf and whilst there aren’t all that many he appears to be taking his time.

Phil decides to leave before it becomes creepy, in his defence he wasn’t _trying_ to stealthily watch him, he was just waiting for him to leave so that he didn’t have to risk being recognised as _‘That awkward weirdo who walked into me then ran off’._ He’ll just order an apron online, there’s still a day before the first class, he’ll use amazon prime.

-

Ordering his apron online turned out to be a great decision. To his delight, there's a whole range of aprons with puns on them. He scrolls through about 15 different ones and finally settles on a black one that says _“Don’t be afraid to take whisks”_ which he thinks is very funny. He adds it to his basket then scrolls a bit more and sees another one that says _“I’m a real fungi”_ with a picture of a mushroom. In the end he orders both, it can’t harm to have a spare one. The Fungi apron isn’t available on one-day delivery, but thankfully, the whisk one is.

After that, he opens WhatsApp. First, he replies to his old co-worker and friend, Erik, who used to write most of the magazine’s content back in Rawtenstall. He’s asking how Phil’s finding life in London, and how the new job is going. They chat for a while, then Phil’s brother, Martyn, sends him a BuzzFeed Quiz about which food condiment you are and they go back and forth arguing their results; Phil is NOT ranch sauce, thank you very much. They spend a good half an hour sending inane quizzes to each other, till Martyn says he has to go.

He messages his mum next, sends her one long message in which he glazes over the get together on Friday and instead tells her at length all about the baking course. She hasn’t been online since 9:28 and it’s nearing 11:00 now, so he assumes she’s asleep.

He climbs into bed with his laptop and watches Friends till he falls asleep.

-

A little over 24 hours later and it’s Wednesday, which Phil already deems one of the worst days of his life, and it’s only lunchtime. Nothing catastrophic has actually happened but everything seems to be against him today, from the moment he woke up.

Phil had woken up at 7:00, as usual, and he’d picked up his phone to find that somehow he’d pulled the wire out of the socket and so his phone hadn’t been charging all night and was now only at 28%, he sighed and plugged it in, hoping he could at least get it to 50% before he had to leave. He’d heaved himself out of bed and trudged into the bathroom where he proceeded to spend the next half an hour trying to figure out why the boiler wasn’t producing any hot water, finally he gave up and had to have a cold shower or else he’d be late and miss his train.

After getting dressed, he dashed to the kettle to make coffee, only to find that he hadn’t rinsed his travel mug yesterday. He hurriedly ran the tap over it and then grimaced when the water wet the edges of his shirt’s cuffs. He hates having wet cuffs but there is absolutely zero time to change.

By some miracle he managed to get his shit together and dashed out the door in time for his train, obviously not without wrestling with the fare gate and almost getting his laptop bag stuck in the train door, because as previously established, today is NOT his day.

By the time he arrived at work, he had managed to collect himself, and wasn’t feeling so negative about the day. He power walked his way through the lobby, promptly stumbled on the corner of a reception area carpet and sloshed lukewarm coffee down the front of his jacket, thankfully it didn’t go through to his shirt, but his bad mood was definitely one hundred percent back.

The rest of his work day carried on in similar fashion; every small thing that could possibly go wrong, did go wrong. Or at least that’s what it felt like.

He’s currently sitting at his desk, staring at the small digits in the corner of his computer screen, desperately wishing the numbers to magically say 5:00, but no, instead 3:09 stares coldly back at him and Phil feels like the day might never end.

All he wants to do is go home and curl up in bed with his laptop and maybe a pizza, but he can’t even do that this evening, instead he has to brave the first baking class today.

Much to his relief the ‘Don’t be afraid to take whisks’ apron had indeed arrived within 24 hours, he had also managed to procure sandwich boxes, so at least he’s prepared. To be honest, he’s not even dreading it as much as he thought he would be, he’s mostly just curious if he’ll be any good at it.

He’s not a chef by any means, he knows how to cook a decent number of mostly basic dishes, he is an independent adult after all. But baking is a whole other thing. On his own merit, he has only baked once before; an attempt at a chocolate cake that came out okay-ish, but was rather flat and dry. It also took quite a bit of effort, which when added to the mess he made of his kitchen whilst trying to make it, just wasn’t worth it, so he hadn’t tried again. Till now he supposes.

Phil straightens his back, sighs, and gets back to work.

-

By time he gets home, he’s back to feeling irritated again, he had spent the whole 15-minute commute home from work, standing next to a particularly rowdy group of teenage boys, one of whom kept accidentally stepping on his feet. 

He glances at his phone, 5:38, he still has an hour or so till he has to head to the community center, he throws his workbag down onto the sofa and goes to his room where he promptly strips out of his work clothes, eager to distance his mind from anything reminding him of this godawful day.

He flops onto his bed, now dressed only in his black boxers, and he starts scrolling through twitter aimlessly.

After 15 minutes pass, his stomach growls and he discerns that he should probably eat something before heading out, he leaves his room and makes a beeline for the tiny kitchen area in the corner of his flat, which consists of a kettle, a microwave, a small fridge, a two-burner stove, 2 cupboards and a washing machine tucked neatly under the granite worktop. A small marble breakfast bar is all that separates it from his living area. Phil opens the fridge and takes out some sliced turkey salami and mustard, he grabs the bread and a butter knife and makes himself a sandwich.

He finishes his sandwich, and does a quick tidy of the flat, he puts his clothes in the wash and rinses his travel mug. He checks his watch; 6:25.

He should probably get dressed. A quick appraisal of his wardrobe and he decides on a white tee with thin red horizontal stripes and a light wash denim jacket, he suddenly regrets not having any jeans that aren’t black because now he’ll have to be extra careful not to put his messy baking hands on them. Or he could just keep his hands clean, but who’s he kidding.

Ten minutes later Phil’s ready to go, he double checks that he has his keys, phone and wallet, then picks up his folded apron and plastic container before leaving the flat, locking the door behind him.

As soon as he steps outside the building, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, he feels a ghost of a smile on his face, nothing is quite as calming as a cool evening breeze, even in London where the air isn’t as fresh as back home, it’s still soothing.

-

Phil arrives at the center at 6:48 which means there’s still twelve minutes until the class starts, but the leaflet he had said that its preferred you arrive earlier so that you have time to get to the class before it actually starts.

A sign by the lift handily informs him that the evening classes are held on the 2nd floor. He presses the call button and waits. The lift doors open to reveal its boxy interior, Phil steps in quickly to avoid any possibility of the doors closing on him, another small fear of his. Well maybe not fear as such but just…a matter of concern. Limbs and doors do not mix, sure they have sensors and what not, but why tempt fate? He will never understand people who stick their hands between the doors to stop them at the last second with seemingly no qualms about trapped fingers.

Phil presses the button for the second floor and a minute later the doors open to reveal a warmly lit hallway with worn grey carpet squares, the odd potted plant scattered along the way and posters stuck all along the blue and green patterned walls. He can hear muted chatter coming from behind various closed doors as he starts down the hallway, scanning the class names as he passes, looking for one that reads “Baking: The Basics”. He passes the woodwork class, glimpses at least three sharp tools through the glass pane in the door and mentally pats himself on the back for not signing up for that.

The corridor takes a sharp left and Phil rounds the corner to be greeted with more of the same sight as before, only this time there’s a couple of windows along the right. He carries on walking, the first door he passes is a utility cupboard but the next one is a culinary class so he must be on the right track. “Baking: The Basics” is found two doors down and a quick peek through the small window in the closed door informs him that a few people have arrived and are sitting on the chairs lined neatly around the edges of the room, but no sign of the instructor yet by the looks of it.

Suddenly he feels the panic clawing its way into his mind again, his hands feel clammy and his stomach seems to be sending him urgent messages that he needs a bathroom _now_. It’s so stupid, so, so stupid. He grips his apron and box tighter, swallows and pushes the door open.

Everyone in the room looks up as he comes in, a natural response he assures himself, they aren’t just staring at you. He lets out a weak “Hey” and sits down in one of the empty chairs along the back wall. Phil looks around the room, there are three fairly large rectangular tables set up around the room, that each seem to have an assortment of ingredients and baking equipment on them. At the forefront of the room is a proper cooking station, assumedly for the instructor.

Phil turns his attention to the people who are with him.

Sitting next to each other on the right side of the room are two women who seem to be mother and daughter, judging by their similar looks and age difference. However, they don’t look like two people Phil would ever place under the same roof. The younger of the two has her vibrant red hair cut short in a classic pixie cut that would not look amiss on the head of Peter Pan, she has yellow eyeshadow on and is wearing a long dark blue cardigan over a black t-shirt and white jeans with dark blue shoes to match. She has a canvas bag resting on her lap and she’s reading a book. All in all, she looks like a bit odd but not unfriendly. The same cannot be said for her mother on the other hand, who wears her red hair in a tight bun on her head, not a hair out of place, her mouth is set in a firm line, dark red lipstick applied perfectly. She’s dressed in a pair of black linen trousers, and a baby blue blouse with half-length sleeves, with not a crease in sight. She’s typing away on her iPhone, her fingers moving a mile a minute. Phil won’t assume that she’s a bad person however he certainly makes a note to keep out of her way.

The only other person in the room is an older Indian man, who’s wearing a blue checkered short sleeve shirt tucked into brown trousers, he has on a pair of thick tortoise shell glasses and is reading the newspaper with a frown.

Phil looks at his phone, it’s seven on the dot. He glances up at the door, just in time to see someone move out of sight of the little window. That should be the instructor.

The door opens slowly, and surely Phil must be living in some sort of movie because in steps none other than the beautiful brown-haired man whom he has already come across twice in the last two weeks. He blinks a few times in shock, not quite believing his eyes. Is he the instructor?! No, he’s holding an apron and sandwich box under his arm he can’t be the instructor. Is him only being an attendee actually any better though?

The man scans the room, he looks around at everyone quickly and he doesn’t seem to recognize Phil much to his relief. Before he has moved fully out of the doorway a short, stick thin woman, standing as straight as a ruler appears next to him. He hurriedly moves to an empty chair, only two away from Phil’s own, and sits down.

The woman, who Phil can safely assume is actually the instructor, thanks to her white chef’s jacket, stands behind the workstation at the forefront of the room, in front of a white board.

“Hello everyone, I am Mrs. Michelle Wright, you may call me Mrs Wright.”

Her voice is sharp, her words pronounced with an air of slight disdain as if the very notion of introducing herself is beneath her, all in all she has the air of a Victorian governess.

Phil looks around the room instinctively to see what everyone else gathers, and catches the eye of Mr curly-hair-and-beautiful-eyes whose name he still doesn’t know, the man raises his eyebrows the tiniest bit and Phil feels a laugh bubble up inside of him, he purses his lips with a small smile and looks back to the front of the room quickly, out of the corner of his eye he sees the man do the same.

Mrs Wright has started writing on the whiteboard, so far, she has written ‘Class One: Banana Bread’ and underlined it twice. She turns around, faces the room and opens her mouth to say something, but is cut off by the sound of the door flinging open with such force that it hits the rubber door stop with an audible thunk.

Everyone looks at the doorway where a tan skinned teenage boy is standing, his face is set in a gloomy half scowl.

“Can I help you?” Mrs. Wright says with one eyebrow raised in question.

“’m here for the course, innit.” he mumbles sulkily and shuffles over to the nearest empty seat, next to the older gentleman. The door swings shut slowly. A slightly awkward silence fills the room, interrupted only by the sound of the young man’s chair of choice scraping against the linoleum floor with a gentle pffpff-pff as he sits down with a huff, Phil looks down at his feet quickly as a laugh threatens to burst out of him, his nerves fully to blame for why he suddenly feels like laughing at such a stupid thing.

Phil bites his bottom lip and hopes it isn’t obvious that he’s dying to laugh, he neutralises his facial expression as best he can, and looks back up again just as Mrs Wright carries on with, “Right, well, as I was about to say, today I have chosen a very basic recipe to get us all started,” she turns back to the board and starts diligently writing down all the necessary ingredients, reading them aloud as she writes.

He spends the next ten or so minutes listening to her going through the process, and was doing just fine on the I’m-a-mature-adult front right up until Mrs Wright begins to describe the process of picking the perfect banana loaf tin.

“What you want is a good length,” she says while brandishing a stainless-steel rectangular baking tin for everyone to see. “but you also need your loaf to be decently thick.” This innuendo in of itself only sets off a mild prickle of amusement in Phil’s mind and he was just about to forget about it and continue following along with her when he hears a badly stifled snort of laughter from his left. He turns his head slightly and is met with the sight of the beautiful man next to him, covering his mouth with his hand, his shoulders hunched in amusement, and good lord is that a small dimple forming. Okay he should probably stop staring. But before he can pull his eyes away, the man turns his head, locks eyes with Phil and half snorts again into his hand which promptly sets Phil off and his cheeks puff in effort to contain his own laughter now.

They both just look at each other for the next few seconds, trying desperately not to crack and start properly laughing, despite the fact that the original situation was not even half deserving of a proper laugh.

Phil shakes his head slightly, before breaking his gaze and turning his attention back to the instructor. He reckons he deserves an award for having the strength to look away from that man whilst he was smiling right at him, eyes filled with childish glee. And it takes about just as much strength not to look to his left straight away and see if the man is still smiling to himself or if his face has set back into the gentle look of indifference he had been sporting when he came in.

“Okay! Now that we’ve gone over what we’ll be doing today, we’re ready to get to work,” Mrs Wright announces. “But first, how about everybody introduces themselves quickly.” Oh, thank fuck, finally! Phil can’t believe himself but he’s actually looking forward to introductions. Not his part, obviously, but to finally know the what the man next to him is called.

The scary lady on his right starts, she clears her throat and introduces herself as Evelyn, and with a gesture to the young lady next to her introduces her too as “My daughter Lavinia.” who promptly perks up and says “Oh please, call me Vinnie.”

Shit. Now it’s his turn.

“Um, hey, I’m Phil” he says with a polite smile at Mrs. Wright, then at everyone else in the room, until his eyes settle on the man next to him, who quirks his eyebrows at him in acknowledgment.

Phil doesn’t look away this time, because now everyone else is looking at the man too, as he raises a hand in a small wave at the room in general.

“Hi, my name is Dan.” He says in a soft but clear voice, while glancing at everyone around the room, and eventually ending up on Phil who unthinkingly imitates the same eyebrow quirk he himself had received earlier, right back at Dan. He would be concerned Dan thought he was making fun of him, but Phil could swear he sees a smirk form on Dan’s face before he turns his head away from Phil, to look at the next person to introduce themselves.

The older gentleman introduces himself as Rahim then the glum looking teen mumbles out a name and Phil’s not entirely sure if he said Marv or Mark. He just hopes he never has reason to need to know.

“Okay! So now that we’re all familiar, let’s get to work. As you can see, we have 3 stations so everyone partner up, you’ll be working in teams of two.”

And so, for what seems like the hundredth time in about 20 minutes Phil finds himself looking at Dan again, this time he nods his head towards the nearest workstation and says, “Shall we?” he immediately cringes internally. That sounds so stupid; he’s not asking him to dance in a cheesy rom com, for fuck’s sake.

Dan nods quickly, “Yes!” He glances around cautiously and says in a quieter voice, “No offence to anyone else here, but you are definitely the best option.” Phil immediately feels small pricks of heat in his cheeks and he looks down at the surface top to avoid full on blushing as he says, “Not sure if that’s a compliment or not.” He doesn’t get an answer from Dan because the instructor starts, well, instructing them to wash their hands at the sink in the corner and to put on their aprons.

Shit. Now Phil kind of regrets his punny choice of kitchen wear. It doesn’t really portray the image of a mature and put together man that he wants to convey to…everyone. He resolutely ignores the fact that he didn’t care about people’s opinions on his apron when he chose it. This is not about impressing anyone specific. Nope. No one at all.

And anyway, even if this _was_ about Dan, he doesn’t think Dan really has much ground to judge on the maturity front seeing as he himself was giggling at a penis joke only a few minutes ago. So there.

Everyone’s mostly finished shuffling about, washing hands and putting on aprons by time Phil dries his hands and puts his apron on, Dan’s already back at their table, wearing a fully black apron with exception of two words written in small writing in the centre, Phil squints a bit to read it, “Oh crepe.” He laughs out loud and Dan pokes his shoulder, “Oi! No fair you can’t laugh at mine without showing me yours!” Phil straightens his shoulders and pulls his apron taut so that the words are clear to read.

Dan groans and hits him with an oven glove from the table, “That is _awful_!”. Phil shakes his head, “Nope, you don’t get to say anything, yours is just as bad.” Dan just shakes his head in response and the room quietens as Mrs Wright starts demonstrating how to sieve flour properly. Phil does not think he should try that unless he wants to cover the whole kitchen with the stuff. He’ll leave the sieving part to Dan.

Dan. Hmm. Phil finds he doesn’t really mind the idea of 5 more lessons. Almost looks forward to it. Funny how things work out.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Come yell at me to update on tumblr over at philisnotonfire9. 
> 
> comments are always welcome. :)


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